


Bad Dreams

by Yeetmeaway



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon Divergence - Avengers (2012), Character Death, Creepy Fluff, Existential Horror, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Horror, Psychological Horror, References to Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26941060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeetmeaway/pseuds/Yeetmeaway
Summary: This is an anthology series of MCU horror stories for October 2020! Each story will be a one shot and will have a story summary with specific tags and character information so you can decide if you want to read it. Happy October! 🎃🦇👻Chapter 1- Captain America alternate origin story with a horror twist. AU.Chapter 2- Avengers Canon Divergent. Norse Mythology twists on the Avengers (2012) movie. Character death.Chapter 3- Hades and Persephone Steve/Natasha AU.
Relationships: Howling Commandos & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Loki & Thor (Marvel), Steve Rogers & Thor, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	1. Spare Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate origin story for Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Steve and his crew are thrown into the midst of a war that he was not prepared for. When Steve returns, he finds he's not the same man anymore. 
> 
> Additional tag warnings that apply to this fic: body horror, existential horror, violence and gore.

Steve had never been to France before. Hell, he’d never been outside the borough of New York he’s lived in his whole life. But war meant opportunity for guys without a single lousy cent to their names. Guys like him and Bucky. 

When Steve enlisted in the American Expeditionary Forces, he was surprised he was approved. Not that he was complaining, this war had been raging for years now— it was all over the papers when America finally joined. He knew he didn't look so much like the fella on the enlistment poster, tall, blonde, barrel-chested and square-jawed. Those were more of Bucky’s features. Steve always thought he wasn’t so bad looking— a little small, sure, bright blue eyes, mousey brown hair, _very_ skinny. 

But he always believed he had heart enough to be a soldier, and now he had the papers that proved it. He met the minimum height requirements (just barely), and he can see fine (just not out of his left eye). He had maybe a few other health problems here and there (well, more than a few). But, these were overlooked— he could hold a rifle just as well as the next guy. Fire it just as well, too. Maybe that should’ve been an indication of how bad things were— they had lowered their standards considerably. 

When he and Bucky arrived in secret with the other American troops in the port of St. Nazaire, they were treated like celebrities, cheered through the streets. A pretty girl met Steve’s eyes and blew him a kiss. Steve couldn’t help his shy smile, his cheeks flushed a soft pink. Bucky clapped him on the back with an amused grin. “French girls, hey Steve?”

It was off to training camps for the AEF in Paris soon after. The weekdays were for training. He got pretty good at getting on his gas mask. He was a decent shot, too. Scrambling up the trench wall was a challenge with all that gear on his back, but it didn’t matter so much that he was fast, just that he could get over when the whistle sounded. On the weekends though, it was like a vacation. Paris was like a dream to Steve, all soft lights and laughter. But there was something behind the Parisian’s eyes, the eyes of soldiers on leave, that he couldn’t comprehend. It looked a little like despair. 

Bucky never let him pause long enough to give it much thought though. He hadn’t come here to dwell on the dread so clearly steeped beneath the surface. If Bucky didn’t let it bother him, then neither would Steve. Instead they saw the sights— The Eiffel Tower, the Champs-Élysées, cabaret shows, (Bucky’s idea) which Steve watched with cheeks redder than the Moulin Rouge. For three weeks, France didn’t seem so bad. 

Then the deployment orders came. 

The 107th AEF infantry division was due to be deployed to the front lines by next week. It hung over Steve like an exciting promise. They’d been training so hard, waiting so long. Now they were finally being sent to do what they signed up for. They joked about it, imagined it, counted down the days. Steve had learned to ignore the creeping doubt, just like Bucky did. 

With five days left to deploy, Bucky got the battalion crest tattooed to his forearm after a night of drinking and philandering. Steve was willing to bet all his money that Bucky’d done it to impress a girl.

“Whaddya think?” Bucky asked, showing Steve his new ink with a proud smile. 

Steve looked up from his drawing of the cabaret girl who had winked at him the other night. He glanced at the tattoo on Bucky’s arm with a scowl. “It looks like shit, Buck.” 

Bucky frowned. “Aw come on,” he said, getting Steve in a headlock. “I bet you wish you had one just like it.” 

Steve smirked and elbowed him in the gut. Bucky released him with a faint 'oof'. “No,” he said. “ _Hell_ no. Not on your life.” 

They both laughed.

* * *

  
  
  


There was nothing that could prepare him for the front lines. Steve hadn’t expected it to be easy— all those hollow eyes could not be for nothing.

It was the smell that got to him first. 

It was putrid. The acrid stink of gunpowder, artillery smoke, and unwashed men could do nothing to alleviate the permeating smell of rot. It was everywhere. In everything. Corpses littered no-man’s-land— a twisted snarl of mud, barbed wire and shell craters as far the eye could see. It was a blight, this place. It made him gag and wheeze, settling in his chest, choking him, strangling him. 

It was the waiting that got to him next. There was little combat action at first. Each day was menial duties, return fire, wait for German attack. At night, the phosphorus flares bathed the trench in stark white, casting shadows on the walls. He feared nighttime the most. The rattle of gunfire, shouts and screams, distant shellfire echoed miles down the line. Sometimes they were ordered to shoot across the stretch of mud between them and the invisible enemy. Steve did it, never knowing if he ever hit his mark. They waited so long, that he grew used to the smell. The stench permeated even him— he hated how rank he was, how filthy. It was in his clothes, in his hair and under his nails. No matter how many times he promised himself he would bathe, he knew he’d never get the smell off. 

* * *

A month. A month of nothing. Steve was always cold. Always chilled through and exhausted. The screams barely registered anymore, the rot and misery was simply part of day to day life. It was as routine as cleaning his rifle, or shooting into empty air at men he couldn’t see. Rats clambered and scrambled, nibbling on the dead, on the living, on everything. At least they were fat and happy. 

After the morning shelling, after the cleaning of his rifle for the millionth time, all they did was wait. Steve couldn’t stand it. His legs bounced irritably, he had chewed his fingernails down to nothing, weeks ago. He didn’t want to talk anymore— he’d run out of things to say. So he drew instead. Each day he drew a different man. 

First was Dum Dum Dugan, a loud, ruddy-haired Scotsman with the burliest build Steve had ever seen. He was foul-mouthed and bawdy, and Steve wasn’t sure he picked up on half the things he said in his thick Glaswegian accent, but he liked that about Dugan. He was solid and strong. 

Next was Gabe Jones, another American. He was dark-skinned, and had a scar on his chin that looked like forked lightning. “Shrapnel,” he said, fingering the mark when he noticed Steve looking at it to add to his sketch. “Whizbang nearly blew my goddamn head off.” 

Gabe was quiet, pleasant and better at poker than anyone in the mile-long section of trench they were stuck in. Steve had lost his rations a few times to Gabe, though he always found them back by dinner time. “Hardly seemed right, deprivin’ a skinny kid of his food,” Gabe smiled. “I’ll tell ya what though, give me your tobacco ration and roll my cigarettes for me and we’ll call it even.” Steve didn’t mind that deal at all. 

On the third day was Montgomery Falsworth, a standoffish Englishman with the short fuse and the blondest hair imaginable. He and Bucky got on well— they compared stories of getting in fights and stealing. Falsworth had been fighting since the war began, but this was the second division he had fought with. His first had been decimated by chlorine gas. Steve avoided sleeping next to him, if he could. He screamed in his sleep. 

The fourth day was Jim Morita, Canadian. That’s all he’d ever say about himself. The tip of his left pinky was missing, though he’d never say why. “Rats chewed it clean off,” Dum Dum said with a wink. Steve didn’t believe him, but he always slept with his hands curled in tight fists after that. 

The fifth day was Jacques Dernier, a Frenchman with a filthy mouth and a beauty mark on his cheek. All the fellas teased him for it, calling him their very own moving picture starlet, or a cabaret girl if they felt like getting decked. Steve liked it. There was something charming about it. He added it into his sketch, in spite of Jacques’s protestations. 

By the end of the week, Steve had collected images of his comrades like it was his job. Nobody minded. He captured their likenesses well enough. Morita even asked to keep his— he wanted to send it home to his wife. Steve quietly tore out his picture and gave it to him. 

Last was Bucky. It wasn’t the first time he’d drawn his friend, but he’d drawn everyone else he liked, so why not Bucky? He easily captured his square jaw, his swept-back hair, and straight nose. But he couldn’t get the eyes right. He couldn’t understand why. Absently, Steve scratched his head, ignoring the lice that jumped and skittered when he did. 

Steve tried. For days he tried. But each time he sketched them, they turned out wrong. He flipped through his other drawings to find all the eyes were the same. They were empty, hopeless, haunted.

He left the drawing of Bucky unfinished. 

* * *

  
  


The waiting ended in November. It was raining that day, too. 

Aerial reconnaissance had mapped out the German trench lines. Orders came down and an unease settled in the trench like a poison cloud. The artillery started things off, showering the German lines with deafening, high explosive chaos. Falsworth shook as he lit his cigarette, his eyes distant. Jacques leaned against him reassuringly. Nobody spoke. 

Soon the whistle sounded— they were going over the top. There was a choked scramble of bodies clambering to get out. Steve took off, driving forward toward the enemy line across no-man’s-land. It could’ve been hours, minutes. He didn’t know anymore. His lungs burned, his legs shook. Shellfire rained down, broke open the ground behind him, beside him. The artillery hadn’t hit its mark— machine gun nests cut down men, slaughtered them in droves. He saw the flash of answering German artillery in the distance, heard the whistle of the shells coming for them. 

Bucky tackled him into a shell crater. The awful rot and mud filled Steve’s mouth and he spat and choked as Bucky shielded him from the blast. They sat up and ducked and trembled as mud rained down on them. Steve met the eyes of each of his friends, all the men he had drawn. They had followed him, ran after him like he was their guiding star. Montgomery crawled up the edge of the crater and peeked over the top, only to duck back down to escape the hail of bullets. “Bloody bastards,” he hissed, adjusting his helmet. 

Overhead biplanes twirled and dipped and chased. Everyone was antsy, anxious to get out. They were like trapped rats. Their eyes wild with fear. 

“Wait for the artillery,” Steve found himself saying. He was barely audible above the chaos, but his friends listened. 

It was a long wait. Two waves of soldiers were sent over the top, two waves were cut down. Screams echoed across the field. Cries of “medic!” and pleas for mothers, wives, _anybody_ , rang out under the ever-present rattle of the machine guns. Steve shivered, his teeth chattering, hands in a white-knuckle grip on his rifle. Their big guns finally recalibrated and returned fire, shelling the enemy trench in a barrage that made Steve’s teeth rattle, his ears ring. The machine gun nests fell silent and that’s when they moved. 

It was 500 yards to the trench line, Steve figured. They ran for it. 

They dropped down into the German trench, his eyes wild, searching for any sign of movement. It smelled like metal, like burnt hair, like blood. Sections of the walls had caved in, burying men alive. They ran through the line, heading for the machine gun nests. Steve wended his way through the labyrinth, his friends at his back, and when he rounded a sharp corner, his heart nearly stopped. 

Three men in grey enemy uniforms scrambled, their faces pale, shaken. They were no older than Steve was. It was like a spell that kept them all frozen in time, staring at each other. The three of them fumbled, rushed for their weapons. The man in front had the bluest eyes Steve had ever seen. He raised his hand and Steve shot. 

He fell, shot through the chest, and dropped something. It bounced on the muddy duckboards— once, twice. 

Grenade. 

It would kill everyone here. Steve was running before he could think. He could hear Bucky scream his name, hear the crack of rifles behind him. The two other German kids fell in a heap. 

Steve dove. He felt the grenade beneath his chest, held it closely. _Not my friends_ , was all he could think. _Not them_. Shellfire hit their trench like a storm and his world went dark.

* * *

_Please_

It was soft, at first. Steve barely registered it. 

_Help me_

A woman’s voice. She had an accent he couldn’t place. 

_Save me_ , she pleaded. 

Steve stirred into awareness, searching. He couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see anything really. _Where are you?_

He wasn’t sure if he said it out loud. The woman’s voice came again, whispering something he didn’t understand and he felt a pull from deep within his chest. He couldn’t move. He wanted to. 

He commanded his body to move, commanded himself to do something. She was in trouble. They were all in trouble. Gradually, he pulled himself together, his body aching. Everything hurt. Everything. It felt as though he was connecting to each part of himself, relearning how to move. He lacked sensation, smell and taste. He had been lying face down. Suddenly, it was as if his tongue had reconnected to his brain. He tasted dirt in his mouth, ash. At first, he felt nothing, saw nothing. He curled his fist and felt mud in between his fingers. He was buried. Steve panicked, and clawed until he felt the pressure dissipate. 

He cried out, his lungs starving for air. He drew a deep, guttural breath in, and felt his lungs expand in his body. The pull in his chest grew stronger, hurt so bad. It was still raining. Each drop was like a blade on his skin. There were screams, a chorus of them, all around him. The woman’s voice grew louder, her words echoing directly in his head, binding him together. Steve screamed to hear them, screamed just because he could. 

There was a burst of gunfire and he was knocked back, tumbling into the dirt. 

Finally he could see her— long brown hair. She was bright, glowing a soft red. Three armed men surrounded her. One had her pinned, the other two stared at Steve, their eyes frozen wide with terror. 

_Help me_. The woman pleaded. Her mouth never moved. She stared directly at him, appealing to him with her glowing red eyes. He did. He exploded forward, stronger than he remembered, faster than he remembered. The men shot at him, staggering back a step. He caught the first with a swift jab. It shattered his jaw, broke his face to pieces. The man’s teeth shattered and lodged in his fist. 

The blood on his hands— was that his? It seemed to soak into his skin, ease his pain. 

Steve drew a shaky breath, unable to comprehend what was happening. He felt the impact of bullets this time. It didn’t hurt as much as breathing, as moving. He whirled on the second man and knocked his gun away. Towering over him, he smacked him hard, felt his bones cave under his fists. He fell in a wheezing heap at Steve’s feet. By then, the third man had scrambled away, leaving the girl in shock on the ground. Steve descended on him, catching him in his grasp, he threw him into the trench below with a sickening crunch. He didn’t get up again. 

The woman had stopped glowing, stopped speaking her words. She seemed to come back to her senses, take in her surroundings. When her gaze fell on Steve, they stared at each other in tense silence, her eyes wide. She was dressed strangely, not wearing clothes like Steve had ever seen. She gasped softly, her eyes brimming with tears. “Oh,” she breathed. “No.” 

Something in her tone filled him with dread. His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know…” 

He felt sick. “Know what?” he asked quietly. 

She was crying now. “I… was scared. I thought… I didn’t mean to bring you back.” 

Steve couldn’t breathe. Bring him back? He looked around, recognized the shelled-out craters marked in the earth, the remains of the trench he had escaped from… But they were lush green and overgrown. The guns were silent. He searched for the artillery in the distance, the tangle of barbed wire, the biplanes overhead. But there was nothing. How long had it been since… fear prickled down his neck. The last thing he remembered… they were being shot at. He had jumped on a grenade. 

Steve stumbled back a step, his breaths ragged and uneven. 

He looked down at shaking fingers, turning them to explore the palms, the blood and dirt caked under the nails, the missing tip of his left pinky. These weren’t his hands. Steve pushed away his tattered sleeve and found a tattoo on his forearm— the 107th division crest. The same one that Bucky had had. The same one he had been so proud to show him… His breath came in ragged pants as panic rose in him.

This wasn’t his body. 

He ran, bile burning in the back of his throat. Behind him, the woman called out, but he couldn’t hear her. 

In the distance there was a cottage, the lights on, shining like a beacon. He ran for it, faster than he ever remembered. His lungs didn’t burn, his legs didn’t shake. Not anymore. Steve burst through the door, ignored the screams as he stumbled into the next room to find a mirror. 

He couldn’t look, he was terrified to look— but he couldn’t make himself stop. His reflection was a stranger, making the same expressions, the same movements. The only thing familiar were his eyes. They were still the same shape, framed with the same long lashes, the same shade of blue (at least, the right one was). His left eye was the bluest he had ever seen. A stranger’s eye.

When Steve brought his fingers up to touch his face, he felt the sensation, but this couldn’t be real. Surveying himself in a frenzied panic, he studied himself. Jacques’s mole on his cheek, the same place under his eye as it had been on him— Montgomery’s perfect blonde hair on his head, Dum Dum’s ruddy red hair on his broad chest, Gabe’s forked lightning scar on his chin… Steve couldn’t look anymore, turning from the mirror, he retched, eyes blurring with tears as he sank to the floor, shaking. 

When the woman came in, he didn’t hear her, his eyes were squeezed shut rejecting this. When she touched him, he started. Whirling to face her, eyes wild. She had brought him back, she had forced him into this… meat. It was just meat. A collection of spare parts stitched together. The worst of it was that there was almost nothing left of _him_. None of his parts were worth keeping beyond his one eye, his nose, his lips. 

Even his teeth felt wrong. 

When she touched him, fingers lighting on his back, he couldn’t help his disgust. Which of his friend’s muscles contracted under her hand? Whose skin was stretched over him? 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. When she pulled him into her, he sagged against her, fingers curling around her arms as she held him. He felt there was a lot to say, but he couldn’t speak. He just let her hold him as he listened to the wild beat of someone else’s heart in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boo!
> 
> So I was reading about superheroes and body horror and it got me thinking... 
> 
> Lol. This concept was an unused AU idea I had a while back for a Cthulhu Avengers universe. It might still happen one day, but it's far too scattered for me to piece together, so enjoy this one shot instead :)  
> I'll also note that this story has not been Beta edited, so forgive any errors you may find. 
> 
> Happy October!


	2. Twilight of the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avengers 2012 Canon Divergent. Heavy Norse mythology influences. Major character death. Characters not compliant with canon (but they are compliant with mythology). 
> 
> Thor is sent on a mission to retrieve Loki from Earth to resume his punishment on Asgard for his past misdeeds. But when he meets the Avengers, Thor encounters a man he swears he knows and has known for thousands of years.

Thor didn’t care much about Midgardian affairs. He hadn’t visited the realm for the better part of a millennia, not since he’d stopped being revered as a god anyway. His time on Midgard had been fun, for a time. Their warriors were brave, eager to learn. He had liked that about them. But he had left them long ago. His return now surprised him, to say the least. The realm was much different now, less primitive. But the people were just as he remembered— loud and small. 

The Avengers were the same— small, noisy people arguing over weapons and betrayals, but he hadn’t expected to find warriors of such caliber. A man whose armour could absorb his lightning and another whose shield blocked the swing of his hammer. Despite his initial interest, he didn’t want to get involved in their affairs. He was on a mission— his purpose here was clear. He had to retrieve Loki and bring him back to Asgard. 

Thor’s hand curled into a tight fist, his rage palpable with the roiling clouds overhead. Loki could serve his punishment for the next three hundred millennia, and it still wouldn’t be enough. The great serpent dripped poison in his eyes as the Allfather decreed centuries ago, but Thor couldn’t help but think he deserved worse.

He sighed, agitated. He didn’t have time to deal with these small, noisy people. They made demands, asked things of him that he hadn’t the patience to deal with, but they had captured Loki, so for now, he would work with them. Their goals were the same— stop whatever scheme he had. He had once been a protector of this realm and endeavored to take up that charge once more if it meant bringing Loki back to face justice. But these people, they made it hard for him to want to stay. Raised voices could be heard echoing down the hall after Thor escaped the latest bevy of questioning these “SHIELD” people insisted on asking. He followed the voices, a frown building on his face. 

When Thor entered the room to see what the commotion was, he froze. It was as if the air had been sucked from the room. His heart stopped. The Iron Man argued with the Captain. Thor had fought them both earlier, but the Captain had worn his helmet and uniform then. Tears stung his eyes as he studied the other man’s face— his straight nose, short blonde hair, eyes bluer than the sea. He recognized him. He knew him. 

He would know him anywhere. 

He could hardly breathe as he watched him. When the Captain shot him a glance, and it was as though he was speared through. It was unbearable, this pain, but Thor laughed, in spite of himself. He didn’t care about whatever they were bickering over, he had another reason to stay now. 

* * *

In a quiet moment afterward, he learned his name— Steve Rogers. 

Thor didn’t particularly care to learn the rest. That wasn’t his name, not really. 

* * *

Loki’s presence on the helicarrier now carried a dark, unwelcome weight. He never wanted to admit when he was afraid, out of his depth, but he was. And he knew it. It’s what compelled him to visit Loki alone, away from the prying eyes of the Avengers and the warriors of SHIELD. When he entered the room, the Jötunn smiled, his green eyes bright, wide with madness. He had taken the form of a man this time— tall with long dark hair, pale skin tinted a slight blue. 

“Thor,” he said, and the thunder god bristled at the sound of his voice. He hadn’t heard him speak for centuries. “It’s been too long.” 

Loki spoke in the tongue of the Aesir— his words were only for him. “Jötunn,” Thor sneered, cutting straight to the chase. “what mischief are you up to?” 

Loki shrugged, a wide smile plastered on his face. “Perhaps I grew tired of captivity,” he said. His face twisted into a hateful snarl, his eyes shining with tears. “Perhaps I am tired of counting the drips of serpent’s poison as they landed in my eyes.” 

“You deserve no less,” Thor said.

Loki scoffed and smiled wider, his gaze focused elsewhere. “ _ Drip _ ,  _ drip _ ,  _ drip… _ ” He spat each word like an accusation. Thor was unmoved. Loki turned his gaze onto him, his look was so furious, so hateful. “Two thousand _ years _ … ” he whispered. 

Thor smacked the glass of his enclosure and Loki flinched. “And you’ll suffer two thousand more,” Thor snarled. “I’m here to take you back to Asgard.” 

Fear tinged Loki’s expression, and his smile split, widened to an unbearable degree as he threw his head back and laughed and laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. Thor’s brow furrowed, unease settling over him like a terrible weight. “Did you see him?” Loki asked, his voice soft. “Dressed in red, white, and blue?” He laughed at the memory and Thor clenched his fists. “ _ Captain,  _ they called him.” He laughed a short, harsh laugh. “His eyes were just the same as I remembered.”

Thor went cold. “Don’t speak of him,” he hissed. “Not  _ you _ —”

But Loki ignored him. “How fondly I remember those eyes,” he said. “The memory has kept me warm through the years. The look on his face, on all your faces, when Höðr—”

“Shut up!” Thor yelled. 

Loki laughed cruelly and Thor seethed, the atmosphere in the room becoming charged with electricity. The trickster god turned his cruel smile on him, his eyes bright with hatred. “Tell me— was it true that Odin slew Höðr for his unwitting part in my little game? Funny that he should die while I lived.” Thor trembled, his fists clenched unbearably tight. Loki looked delighted. “Was it true that Frigg wept for days? That Nanna couldn’t bear it and her grief killed her, too?”

Thunder cracked in the skies around them, lightning arced from Thor’s body, crackling and sparking across the metal panels and walls. Alarms started blaring, and footsteps headed for them, but Thor was transfixed, his rage all-consuming as he stared at Loki with murderous hatred. The Jötunn smiled. “Hearing you all  _ beg _ , hearing you all  _ plead  _ and weep,” he said softly. “The memory of that kept me warm all these years. Every drop of poison hurt less when I remembered how bitterly you all cried.” 

Thor stepped forward, his rage powerful when a voice cut through the din— 

“Thor.” He faltered and looked up to see a group of Midgardian soldiers with weapons drawn, the other Avengers and Steve, shield in hand, expression laced with concern. The fight went out of him and he sagged, head bowed in shame. 

Steve approached cautiously, shooting a brief glance at Loki. “Come on,” he said quietly as he took him by the arm. Thor felt like a boy again, a brief smile graced his lips and he quickly returned his gaze to Loki, who smiled sinisterly as Steve led him away. 

* * *

Loki’s schemes had finally come to light. A portal was opened, Chitauri flooded through to lay waste to the city. The battle was hard-fought, but it led him  _ here _ , fighting side by side with Steve. It felt so good, he had to admit. He studied the way Steve’s eyes lit up, the way he focused when he cut into the Chitauri with his shield. He was in his element, fighting like this. That much hadn’t changed, at least. Steve pulled the creature’s arm off with his bare hands, rending flesh from bone, tearing it apart like it was nothing. Thor beamed as he watched him before turning his attention back to the fight.  _ Do you remember? _ Thor thought as he smashed a Chitauri with his hammer.  _ Do you remember the plains of Vanaheim, the war with the Vanir? Or Hringhorni, your great longship?  _ He paused, his heart suddenly heavy. His ship and his funeral pyre. Thor turned and Steve readjusted his shield on his arm. He shot him the tiniest of smiles and Thor gripped Mjöllnir tighter to keep himself from breaking. It was there too, in his smile. He was the brightest of them. He had been so beloved. He met Steve’s blue eyes, willing him to understand him.  _ Do you remember who you really are?  _

Steve’s smile faded, his brow furrowed in confusion. He didn’t seem to understand the way Thor looked at him. Thor drew a breath and focused on the fight once more. 

* * *

The Avengers captured Loki, cornering him in Stark’s tower. He laughed when they did, his plan in ruins. His eyes hollow. Thor knew that look well— he was furious. Loki was quickly put in restraints and taken into custody and Thor took him aside and whispered in his ear, “Drip, drip, drip, Jötunn.” 

Loki hissed and squirmed, his terror plain. “No!” he shrieked, “No!” He twisted in Thor’s iron grasp and shifted shape, taking the form of a bird. The restraints clattered to the floor. SHIELD agents cried out, Steve leapt to intercept him as Hawkeye fired an arrow that struck the Jötunn in the side, but he soared undeterred, straight for them. He was making his escape— or so Thor thought. Loki shifted back into a man and Thor realized, too late, that he was going after Steve. 

Terror gripped him. He threw Mjölnir, but it was too late. Loki had grabbed the captain, pulled him close, and whispered in his ear. Steve fought initially, then froze, his eyes wide, lips parted in a look of indescribable horror. Loki kissed Steve’s temple before Mjölnir struck him and they both fell. Warriors swarmed to pin him, his howling laughter echoing through the room. His teammates attended to Steve, who was helped to his feet, his eyes wide and unfocused. Thor hated the look on his face— it was too much like the last time he had seen him. That look had haunted him for years. 

“Steve!” Black Widow cried, trying to snap him from his trance. For a moment Steve seemed not to hear her. He stared blankly ahead before he turned his gaze on Loki, prone on the ground, laughing and laughing and laughing. 

Hawkeye appraised him. “Steve, are you—“ 

“I’m fine,” he said, dropping his shield. “I’m fine.” He easily shook off the concerned hands reaching for him as he turned to the Jötunn who grinned wolfishly up at him. Steve suddenly lunged, kneeling to smash his fist into his face. Loki laughed, his mouth and nose bloody as Steve gripped his neck and tore out his windpipe with his bare hands. 

There were screams, shouts of alarm and confusion as Steve, in a wide-eyed frenzy continued his hysterical assault on the dying Jötunn. Nobody could pry him off of him. Thor finally intervened, catching his fist mid-strike. Steve turned, wild and furious, but froze when he saw his face. There was a glimmer, a tinge of madness behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly. “He’s gone. You’ve had your revenge.”

Or justice, to Thor’s mind. Steve had been good at that once, too, in another life. Steve blinked and looked at the sea of horrified faces. Without a word, Steve got up and left. The silence in the room was deafening. All eyes were on Loki’s unmoving body, on the blood pooling onto the floor. “It was Loki’s trickery,” Thor lied, “nothing more.” 

* * *

  
  


In the chaos that followed, Thor was the first to find Steve. He was on the roof, as Thor suspected he would be. How many times had he found him, overlooking the rainbow bridge, the shimmering spires below when he was troubled? He knew him better than he knew himself. Steve didn’t move as Thor approached. He didn’t seem to hear him. His hands were stained red with Loki’s blood as he stared vacantly out at the city. 

“Steve,” Thor said. The name sounded wrong. 

Steve started, and he faced him, expression filled with terror. A tear rolled down his cheek, his lips parted in shock. When Thor came up beside him, Steve shied away. “I was born in Brooklyn,” he said. “I was born in this city…” His voice broke a little, his expression blank. “I… my name is Steve Rogers.” He backed up a step, searching, unable to piece together his thoughts. “Steven Grant Rogers…” 

Thor stepped closer. “What do you remember?” He clasped Steve’s arm, his expression hopeful. 

Steve flinched and touched his chest, hand centering over his heart. Thor wondered if it hurt. He wondered if he could feel the spear that killed him. Steve shook his head, another tear tracked down his face. “No,” he said. “No. I’m Steve Rogers.”

“I know,” Thor said, taking a step closer. “It’s alright.”

He drew in a sharp breath, his hand curling over his chest, gripping his uniform tightly. Steve’s eyes were wide with terror, the colour drained from his face. “I… died. I… it was cold. It was so cold. Thor…” 

“I know,” he said. It was cold in Helheim, dark.

Steve let out a shaky breath, his hands gripping his head tightly. He seemed to fight himself, fight the dawning that he wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t a man at all. “No,” he groaned. “I’m… I’m…” He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t face reality. 

“My brother,” Thor said, reaching for him. Steve swatted his hand away, his expression furious, his denial making him lash out in anger. But Thor just smiled weakly, his hand cupping his cheek. “Baldr.”

Steve broke. His mouth was frozen open in shock, the final unshed tears trekking down his cheeks. He seemed unable to breathe for a moment, unable to respond as his true name settled over him. Thor watched Steve fade, his mind shattered. When he blinked, all traces of Steve Rogers were gone. That man was never really real. Not to Thor, anyway. A shaky laugh built in his chest as the absurdity of three thousand years of knowledge, of death and life, and rebirth came back to him. There was a brightness to him that hadn’t been there before. Steve— Baldr, traced the point on his chest with an indescribable look and Thor’s heart broke. 

It had started with a game. They had been laughing, playing, testing Baldr’s invulnerability. Their mother had foreseen a dark fate for him and sought to protect him from everything in all the nine realms. She had succeeded in receiving an oath from all but one thing. Thor was still a boy then— his beard was barely coming in. Baldr had teased him for it, but he remembered the kindness in his brother’s eyes as he fondly ruffled his hair. Baldr had been smiling that day, laughing with the rest of them. But Loki, in his spiteful jealousy, had tricked their brother, Höðr. Loki had handed him a spear made of mistletoe, bade him throw it at Baldr knowing it was the one thing in all the realms that would kill him. Thor remembered Höðr’s face when he heard Baldr’s cries, remembered holding his brother, trying to stop the bleeding with a fear unlike any he’d felt before. But it was too late. Their mother’s wails as she held her fallen son stayed with Thor for all the years since. 

  
  


At the funeral, Thor had been the one to light the pyre. He had watched his brother, cold and shining no more, as the flames ignited his longship and swallowed him whole. His death had shaken the gods, set in motion Odin’s wrath. It had torn their family apart. Höðr was slain for killing his brother— he was so grieved that he never protested, just offered his throat to their father’s blade. Odin and Frigg moved heaven and earth to bring back their son, but Hela was resolute. Everyone had to cry for him for her to return their bright, shining boy.  _ Everyone _ . 

His brother smiled at some secret joke and finally met Thor’s eyes. He recognized him. “Thor,” Baldr whispered. His eyes were bright, clear. He smiled a little too wide. Hearing him, hearing his older brother broke him and Thor pulled him into a tight embrace. Baldr laughed and it sounded just as he remembered. “You’ve gotten so big,” he said.

Joy burst through him. “We all wept for you,” Thor said. 

Baldr pulled back and cupped Thor’s face in his hands with a kind smile. “Not all of you,” he said quietly. 

Loki hadn’t.  _ Let Hela keep her prize,  _ he had said. He was chained beneath the serpent soon after. Left forgotten and alone to suffer for two thousand years. Thor met his brother’s stare, grief heavy in his chest. “We tried, brother,” he said. “We tried to get you back.”

Baldr laughed, long and loud. It was just as he remembered it sounding. His brother kissed him on the forehead, his hands bruising, crushing. Thor squirmed in his grasp. “It was fated,” he said. “Just as this is fated.”

“What is?” 

He gripped him too tightly. His eyes were bright with madness. “A shore of corpses,” he whispered. “An age of blood, and sword and axe. It sates itself on the blood of men, paints our home red with crimson gore.” Fear lanced through him and Thor freed himself from his brother’s grasp and stumbled back a step. His brother watched him with wide eyes advancing on him. “Brothers will kill one another, mankind will run rife with insanity, with bloodlust as the seas boil and Yggdrasil shakes and  _ burns _ .” 

“Brother, please,” he said. He was a child again, pleading. His words frightened Thor to his marrow. 

“I can’t be here, Thor. Do you understand?” His eyes, bluer than the ocean implored him, willed him to understand him. His brother had foreseen his own death— a gift of foresight like their mother’s. 

But Thor didn’t understand at all. Above them, an ear-splitting crack ripped apart the heavens. The ground trembled beneath his feet and in the distance, screams echoed through the streets. Thor turned, panicked to see the sun begin to disappear. “Baldr,” he pleaded “brother, what do you mean?”

But his brother only smiled as he watched the sun blacken, the skies turn a bleeding red. “Loki started it, but I am the herald,” he said. “I am the first sign.”

Thor couldn’t ask him what he meant. Part of him knew. It was why their parents wanted him back so badly. Baldr’s death was the beginning of the end. They couldn’t face it. They couldn’t acknowledge it— it meant they were all doomed. Thor’s heart stopped. He watched his brother with wide eyes, with fear. But Baldr smiled his gentle smile, his eyes laced with madness, with the burden of knowing what was to come. 

Ragnarok. 

The end of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit weird, but all these stories are a bit weird lol. 
> 
> A brief synopsis-- Baldr is the son of Odin and Frigg (and is Thor's half-brother). He is a god associated with wisdom, justice, and fairness, but also light and beauty. In mythology, he's beloved by all the gods, and his death is taken very hard by everybody. 
> 
> Ragnarok-- like the movies, except it's the death of all 9 realms and is extremely hardcore lol. Baldr, in some myths, returns after Ragnarok as one of the surviving gods. In others, he returns before Ragnarok and fights with his family one last time before they are all destroyed. Baldr is one of the few gods to survive.


	3. Memento Mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Body Horror, Creepy Fluff, mature themes. 
> 
> Summary: Hades and Persephone AU featuring Steve and Natasha.

Steve stood shivering, his hands balled tightly in the pockets of his jacket, his Ma’s hand on his shoulder as he watched the casket lower into the ground, hiding away the nice lady who lived downstairs. Steve always liked her. Sometimes he imagined she was secretly his grandma, despite her saying she had no kids of her own. Steve would get her groceries for her, or at least, he used to. She would always bake cookies— molasses cookies and always gave him a dozen to share with his Ma in payment. There were usually only eight left by the time Steve brought them home. It was strange to think that she was gone. It was just last week that she had fallen while trying to replace a bulb in her kitchen. Steve had been the one to find her, skin greying, eyes fixed in an endless stare, neck broken— and _her._ The other woman standing over the nice lady. She smelled like roses and had hair like fire. When she turned and looked at him, he dropped his groceries and ran. 

Steve shivered and his Ma ran her hand through his hair. 

* * *

The rattling wheezing coming from the other side of his ma’s door filled him with dread. He knew what it meant. He had always known what it meant. Steve stood with a mug of tea in one hand, a slice of cake in the other, frozen outside of her bedroom as he listened to his mother struggle for each laboured breath. For a moment, he could only watch the steam curl and rise into the air. It was his nineteenth birthday yesterday. Bucky’s Ma brought over a pound cake. His mother had been lucid for most of it. Steve fixed a smile on his face and entered. His Ma was frail, skin ghostly white save for the lurid flush of red in her cheeks. She wheezed a wet, rattling breath, her chest rising and falling weakly. When he saw she wasn’t awake, he dropped his smile and set the tea and cake down on her night table, and then sat on her bed. He massaged his face tiredly, at a loss for what more he could do. The doctors said there was nothing, that they were just waiting for the end now. Steve sighed miserably, his fingers pressed to his eyes to stop the well of bitter tears that threatened to break him. He never cried in front of his Ma if he could help it. 

Steve startled when his mother suddenly grabbed his hand and gripped him like a vice. He turned, alarmed, to find her eyes open, staring just behind him at the open door. A chill crept across his back, racing down his spine. He stiffened, eyes fixed on his mother, who wouldn’t take her eyes from the point just over his shoulder. She squeezed him harder, her breaths coming in short, panicked, gasping little rattles. The smell of lilies, of roses and chrysanthemums and carnations and orchids, blanketed the room in a cloying haze. Beneath it was the smell of something else, something foul. 

Steve was stricken with fear. He couldn’t make himself turn around. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, he hardly breathed. The chill came closer, nearly unbearable as he sat frozen clutching his mother’s hand, watching her gasp and struggle out a strange, soft little sound, her eyes wild with terror. She was screaming. The chill bore down on him, he could feel it on the back of his neck like a breath. When his mother’s hand slipped from his grasp, her body flagging, he panicked. He whirled around to meet a pair of startling eyes. They appeared almost backlit, so green he couldn’t quite comprehend them. They were the same eyes that had frightened him all those years ago— staring at him, lupine, predatory.

It was her. 

He lost his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. Only his mother’s tight grip on his hand kept him grounded. “Please,” he said. She was close enough for him to feel her cold breath ghost across his lips. Steve was shaking. He dared not blink, or breathe, or move. “Not like this,” he made himself say. “Not while she’s scared.” Those lupine eyes transfixed him and he faltered. There was so much loneliness in those eyes. Behind him, his mother stirred as if waking from a nap. 

“Steve?” she whispered. He turned to find his mother more alert than she had been before. When he turned back around, the deadly presence lifted. The smell of grave flowers disappeared, the chill left like a whisper. He and his mother spent the rest of the evening together, never speaking of her. They talked and laughed and had their cake and tea. He stayed in his Ma’s room that night, drifting off to sleep in the chair by her bed not long after she had. 

In his dreamy haze, he heard a soft melody, a kind tune. It pulled him from his sleep and curled around him like a comforting embrace. He felt a hand like ice through his hair, over his back. It was comforting in a way. He shifted and drifted in and out of sleep. When the humming stopped, he slowly woke up. It had to have been a dream. But the chill clinging to his skin told him otherwise. Steve rubbed his eyes and checked on his Ma to find that she was still. She had a tiny smile on her face, her expression peaceful. The curtains fluttered in the balmy night air, the smell of flowers lingered. 

* * *

When Steve visited his mother, he thought he could feel _her_ , every so often. Sometimes it was a chill down his spine or a streak of fire in the corner of his eye. There was a presence behind him, always behind him. He set the white rose down by his mother’s headstone, pausing for a moment to read the letters of her name etched into the sparkling grey. She was close today. Close enough for him to shiver. He imagined those green eyes staring down at him. Steve swallowed, tracing the letter of his mother’s name one last time before he stood and placed another rose on top of the headstone. A rose for his Ma and a rose for _her_. 

“Thanks,” he said. It felt stupid talking to her out loud like this. “For taking care of her.” He had a whole speech planned, but the words wouldn’t come now. He shoved his hands in his pocket and left. He could feel her eyes on his back. 

  
  


* * *

Steve was in the garden when he felt that familiar chill again. The sweet, cloying scent of roses filled the air and when he looked up, he fell back with a startled cry. She was standing in front of him, plain as day. Her hair was fire, dancing, and drifting around her face. Her eyes were the same vivid, unnatural green. They seemed to be backlit, glowing, even in the light of day. Her skin was pale like marble, grey-blue veins running just beneath. Her lips heart-shaped and full, a dusky pink colour. She was dressed in a black robe fitted around her bare shoulders, held together with a single clasp. It draped delicately around her, drifting and impermanent as smoke, seeming to shift shape any time she moved. Her slender white leg was visible when she stepped closer. Her expression was uncertain, almost angry. 

Steve stopped breathing, fear turned his tongue to lead. She had never approached him before and he was certain he would only see her again when she came to claim him. Fear struck through him. Maybe this was it. He hadn’t expected to die doing yard work, but sometimes life was funny that way. He froze in horrible anticipation as he watched her, but she only stopped in front of him and withdrew a blood-red rose from her robe. Steve stared at it, recognizing it as the one he had left for her when he visited his Ma the other day. It started off as a one-time thing, but then it became a tradition. He had left a flower for her every time he visited for the past five years. She held it out to him as if wanting him to take it back. 

He met her eyes again and offered her a weak little smile. “That’s for you,” he said. 

She blinked, her brow furrowed in confusion as if waiting for him to laugh, to tell her he was only joking, but it never came. The fear subsided a little as he watched her. He was still tense, his body unable to get past the goosebumps her presence gave him, but he saw something in her that tugged at his heart. She appeared so lonely, so confused. He wondered if anyone had ever been kind to her. She knelt suddenly, dropping by his side as she stared at the rose in her hands. Her lips were pursed in a little frown, her vivid green eyes wide and unseeing. She looked as though she couldn’t understand why he would give this to her. Steve watched her a moment before he resumed his work in the garden, pulling up weeds as he tried to think of what to tell her. There seemed like there was a lot to say, but nothing came out.

He had questions, of course. Namely, what she was doing here. He had an idea of what she was, but he wondered if she had a name. When he looked up again, she was watching him, her expression lost. Steve plucked a daisy and considered it for a moment. He reached out— it felt wrong like she was never meant to be touched— and put the flower behind her ear. Her hair was cold. He expected it might’ve burned him, but it felt strange, like touching smoke. 

She watched him with wide eyes, her expression bordering on dangerous. It sent a shiver of unease through him, but he smiled. “It suits you,” he said. 

Her expression softened, her luminous green eyes drifting to her hands resting in her lap. She had delicate, slender fingers and matte black nails. Looking at her now, he was struck by how small she was next to him. He frowned and quickly looked away to continue pulling up weeds, colour tinting his cheeks. He was being foolish now. Steve busied himself for a while before he felt her eyes on him again. He stopped, his hands deep in the dirt, and was about to look at her when she reached out and cupped his face, smoothing her thumb over his cheekbone.

Steve’s heart stopped, his eyes shot to her, nearly trembling at her touch. He forgot how to breathe as she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. He was overwhelmed by her— the smell of flowers, of earth, and the sickly sweet smell of something he couldn’t place filled his nose. Her cold hair drifted across his face, her touch like ice on his skin. But her lips… his eyes drifted shut. She was soft, delicate, and gentle. 

He had the sense that she was sweet, kind. He leaned into her, a soft breath escaping him. And just like that, she was gone like the flutter of bird wings. Steve’s eyes drifted open to stare at the place she had been. The grass was dead, withered, and grey. He could still feel her kiss lingering like a brand on his skin. 

* * *

It would be wrong to say he wanted to see her again. Steve knew that, but he couldn’t stop himself. He knew he would, one day. Everyone would. 

In the meantime, he sketched her from memory, outlining the sharpness of her features, her wide eyes, and full lips. He was so engrossed in the drawing that he didn’t hear Bucky come in. 

“That your girlfriend?” he said, clapping Steve on the back. He jumped and struck a line through her face. 

Steve frowned and grabbed the eraser as Bucky laughed and sauntered over to the fridge to open the door and grab a beer. Steve corrected the line through her eyes, erasing them with a frown. He wanted to capture her, show her what she looked like to him.

The next time he visited his Ma, he left her the drawing as well. 

* * *

  
  


He was drawn from sleep by the startling chill, the scent of flowers that heralded her arrival. Steve blinked awake to find her sitting on the end of his bed, watching the wall with an empty look. Bathed in the silver light of the moon, her pale skin seemed to almost glow. He sat up, his heart pounding in his chest. 

“You shouldn’t think of me,” she said. Her voice startled him. It was velvety, soft, and warm. She turned to look at him, her green eyes flickering like the fire of her hair. She held his drawing of her, folded in her hand. She eyed it briefly before she returned it into her robe, her expression troubled. “You shouldn’t seek me out as you do.” 

Steve ignored the goosebumps and threw off his covers to swing his legs out of bed. His mind fumbled through the questions he had to finally ask her one. “Why were you watching me?” he asked. 

She looked away, her expression sorrowful. She watched her hands in her lap. “I was lonely.” 

He had known that, he supposed. It hurt to hear her admit it. Steve gently reached out and took her hand. It fit in his like it was meant to be there, small and delicate. Her fingers weakly squeezed him in return and he smiled briefly. “Why did you kiss me?” That had been over a year ago now. But it stayed with him always. 

She was quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed ever so slightly. “I shouldn’t have,” she said. 

He couldn’t say what possessed him, but Steve reached out to touch her, tracing the shape of her face. She leaned into him, pressing her cheek into his palm, her eyes sliding shut. He shuddered a breath. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t wanted this, if he hadn’t dreamed about touching her like this. She felt just as he remembered, her fiery hair gentle and cool, her skin smooth and creamy and cold. Shyly, he brushed her lips, tracing the dusky pink with his thumb. “But you wanted to,” he said. 

Her lips parted, her expression pained. She was silent and he smoothed his thumb along her cheek. She met his eyes with a look of devastating loneliness. She was lovely. Lovely and sad. His heart broke for her. She was so close, so fragile in his hand and Steve hesitated before he leaned in and kissed her. He’d dreamed of touching her like this, too. It was shy, a timid press of his lips to hers. She was cold, sweet, her lips petal-soft. He dared to touch her, trail his fingers down the sharpness of her jawline to cradle her neck. He could feel her eyes on him as she sat frozen. He pulled away and she was on her feet in an instant, her robe stirring around her, seeming to swallow the pale moonlight in the room. 

Fear settled over Steve, keeping him seated. “Why?” she whispered. She was angry. Her eyes burning so bright, they seemed to glow. Steve was paralyzed, he didn’t know how to answer her. “You want to see what I am?” she asked him. Her fingers fell on the clasp of her robe, and it fell open. The smell hit him— it was rotten, vile. It made his eyes water. A vee of her flesh was exposed and she gently parted her robe to reveal her body. Her skin was torn away in shreds from her chest down. Exposed ribs sat stark-white against the wet black skin of her torso. She smelled of decay, of rot. She seemed to glow from the inside out, her innards like burning coals.

She smiled bitterly as she watched his shocked expression. “Do you understand?” she asked, her voice sharp, cutting. “This is what I have to offer.” Steve’s words died in his throat, his eyes wide as she traced over her exposed ribs, delicate fingers catching on putrid flesh before she reached under her ribcage, pushing her hand into her body with a pained smile. Steve could see her hand, see the shift of glowing red as she reached up inside herself to take hold of her heart. She pulled it from her body, her hands glistening black, dripping and foul. 

Her heart was black, wet, small in her hand and she squeezed it bitterly, her expression tinged with sorrow. “This is what I am,” she said. “I have nothing to give you. You don’t want this. You don’t want me.” 

Steve hardly breathed, his eyes fixed on her heart. His mind seemed to buzz, the cloying smell of her settled on the back of his tongue and he blinked hard. As if in a dream, he stood and went to her, never taking his eyes from hers. Standing before her, she seemed so small, so frightened. She faltered, her teeth gritted in bitter anger that he didn’t seem afraid of her. She backed up a step, clutching her heart to her chest. “Stop it,” she warned. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” Steve asked softly. 

Her eyes burned into him, her expression set with anger. “I have nothing. I’m vile, a monster,” she said frantically. Steve reached out and brushed her hair from her face and her anger seemed to dissolve, her gaze drifting to the floor. He considered her for a moment before he looked down at the heart in her hands. She crushed it tightly in her grip, her white fingers like a cage over the blackened flesh. Steve was quiet when he touched her, her wrist cool under his fingers. Gently, he coaxed her to show it to him, and she held it like an offering between them. He swallowed hard, looking at the small black organ in her hands. Slowly, he reached out to touch it. It was cold and fleshy, slippery like a wet stone. It throbbed weakly, pulsing in her hands and she smiled bitterly.

“It started beating the day you left me a rose.” It was a soft admission, and Steve looked up to find her piercing green eyes on him, her expression so full of longing that he flushed a little. She looked away, ashamed. “You deserve better.” 

Steve caressed her cheek thoughtfully. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she was so much more than she thought he was. But he just leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. There was a beat before she leaned into him. Her hand fluttered to his chest, touched him over his heart. She kissed him back, a soft sound like a whimper escaping from her. He could feel how desperate she was, how alone she had been. But she didn’t have to be alone anymore. Steve held her closer, and she pulled him into her, her fingers lacing through his hair. She broke away to look at him with her wide, luminous eyes. “I love you,” she said with a weak smile. Her words were a soft whisper against his mouth, but warmth crept through him and he touched his forehead to hers. 

The shadows that made up her robe seemed to envelop them, and Steve smiled at her, gently, adoringly. The darkness was cool on his skin, soft as feathers. As she pulled him in for another kiss, they disappeared like the flutter of birds' wings.

A breeze blew through the curtains of the empty room like a shiver. 

In the air, the scent of roses lingered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea has been floating around my head for a while, soooo tada! 
> 
> Happy Halloween!


End file.
